


Only A . . .

by KingNightRipper



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: KillerJokes, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-10
Updated: 2020-11-10
Packaged: 2021-03-08 18:56:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27491566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KingNightRipper/pseuds/KingNightRipper
Summary: I came up (I think) with the KillerJokes ship (I like to think)Love these two, they're adorableEnjoy- KNRAlso btw this is a collab with TheGodofSmut but there was a thing with the site so I'll try later
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Killer Croc
Kudos: 7





	1. Only A Man

**Author's Note:**

> I came up (I think) with the KillerJokes ship (I like to think)  
> Love these two, they're adorable  
> Enjoy  
> \- KNR
> 
> Also btw this is a collab with TheGodofSmut but there was a thing with the site so I'll try later

He used to do freelancing work. You know. Killing. Eating. Killing some more. Eating some more. But then he got bored. Didn’t really understand why he did the same thing day after day. His brain told him, “It’s to survive. We need to eat to survive.” But he could just go down to the butcher’s shop and buy some meat. Buy some dead cow. Buy some dead pig. And it would fill him up just fine. But here he was killing  _ innocent _ people with his bare hands. Ripping them up and eating them. It filled a dark hole inside of him. A dark hole that had to be fed constantly.

He wasn’t even hungry anymore. He just ate to survive. He ate to keep up his strength. He was a strong beast. A man. A crocodile. A killer. He was a killer. And always would be. 

Sometimes Batman put him in Arkham and he would stay there for weeks on end in his giant pool of water. Swimming about. Eating the fish they tossed him. And planning. His small brain was planning. Trying to, at least. Planning to escape. Or at least be free of this endless boredom. Of swimming in circles. 

He was a beast. A killer. A monster. And that would never change. He knew that. He would always know that. No matter how bad his condition got he would always be Killer Croc. Wayalon Jones was dead. Had died when the Batman had first put him in Arkham. 

The judges and courts tried to put him in Blackgate. Where they weren't prepared for him. For the beast. He killed his fellow prisoners by the handful until he escaped. They never again sent him to Blackgate. Only Arkham. With it’s old walls and misty windows. And a tank that was built for him. He loved his tank. It made him feel safe. He couldn’t always feel safe. There were always outside dangers but in his tank he could be himself. Just a crocodile. Swimming. Splashing. Snapping.

Many of those dangers came from inside Arkham itself. The guards would torture him, shocking him with cattle prods on their breaks and beating him with their batons. The inmates would sneer at him, sneer at his scales and teeth and ugliness. They made him look like a fool. And he wanted to kill them for it. Truly and honestly. He wanted to tear them limb from limb for everything they've done. But he doesn’t. He just sits in his murky green water, taking it all in silence. 

Some of the inmates weren’t assholes like the guards and the rest of them. They gave Croc his respect, acknowledging that he was as fearsome as they were. They gave him the scarce kindness that he would so often receive only a few times in his life. The snowman, the plant woman, the genius. Their kindness was disguised so not to be seen as weakness, but Croc’s senses were keen enough to pick up on them. 

They were true to him. They didn’t lie. And yet…

He trusted them. He was a man. A monster. A beast. A killer. And they respected him for that. Treated him like a true killer. Not the poor crocodile boy Waylon Jones. No, the terrifying, man-eater Killer fucking Croc. 

He was a man. A monster. A beast. And he wore the names with whatever pride he had left. He lived within and without, drifting in the void that had sucked him into the unknown.

And it was hard. Difficult. But he, Killer Croc was strong. A man. A monster. A beast. The Killer Croc. 


	2. Only A Killer

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy

The voices spoke to him everyday. They echoed through the asylum’s halls, the cells, the sewers. There was only one thing that they said to him: Kill. Kill.  _ Kill. _ Over and over, day after day, month after month. Kill. And he ignored them. Well, he tried. But they were always there. Always present. Always waiting for him to lose his grip on reality again so that they could kill some more. They would never be satisfied. They would always be there. Wanting, Waiting. Hurting him. And begging.  _ Pleading. _ For blood. For death. For meat. 

Compared to the other inmates, his voices were tame. He listened to Zsasz through the vents, mumbling to himself over and over. “Cut, cut, cut, cut.” He heard the Hatter on his way to the psychiatrist. “Tea time with Alice? Oh frabjous day, frabjous day!” And, on one fateful day, he heard Scarecrow screaming in his cell on the floor above him. “He’s going to get me! He’s going to fucking get me! Let me out. Fucking let me out!” Yes, his voices were tame. They were non-existent compared to the others. They were like little flies compared to the giant wasps buzzing around in Zsasz’s head or the deadly hornets in Scarecrow’s terrified brain. 

He wasn’t insane. Other people heard voices too. People on the outside. People that didn’t kill. That lived mundane lives. With no meaning or purpose. He wasn’t the only one who thought so. The clown would rant about the soulessness of Gotham whenever he had the chance. He would talk about it nonstop, that he was the saviour for the broken. The hurting. The men and women who were like a machine with no battery. He spoke about the need to embrace anarchy for there to be freedom. 

Sometimes, Croc wanted to rip that flapping tongue right out of the clown’s mouth and eat it. Other times, he wanted to talk to the clown, feeling strongly that they would find common ground. He thought the Joker was the most irritating and the smartest. 

The Joker must’ve picked up on that, because there he stood inside Croc’s cell. His starch white face was splattered with the blood of men and his knuckles were purple and red. He leaned over the railing that kept careless fools from falling into the jaws of death below, watching Croc with dangerous curiosity. 

Croc’s golden eyes flickered off to the side and came back to the Joker. “I could eat you.” 

The clown’s pale lips curled upward at that. Croc noticed that they were cracked and dry, most likely because Joker wasn’t allowed to bring his chapstick with him. “Then by all means! Come get a taste.” 

The Joker dangled his hand above him. The fingers were long and skinny, like the bones of a skeleton. The voices around Croc became louder. Bite him. Bite his hand off. Sink your teeth into his delicate neck. Fucking eat him. 

He snarled low in his throat and lunged out of the tank and onto the landing. Joker’s eyes raked across his well-muscled chest and stomach. He growled and watched with great interest as the clown smiled at him. Croc stood stock still and stared down at the significantly shorter clown. The other man stepped forward slowly and ran his long fingers across Croc’s abs. He smirked slightly and moved his hand up to run across the giant meaty pecs. 

“What are you doing?” Croc asked, confused. 

“I don’t know.” Joker responded softly. Croc turned his head slightly and watched as Joker’s eyes followed his every movement. It was strange. The clown was hyper-aware and yet completely unobservant at the same time. Yes, very strange indeed. 

Croc cleared his throat, which sounded like a guttural rumble. “You just gonna stand there or are ya gonna get out of Arkham?” 

The clown smirked at him and took one last burning look at Croc’s bare chest. 

“How about we get outta here Croc, old-boy” Joker said back with a short laugh. 

He grunted and glanced down at his tank. He loved his tank. He found more comfort in the sewers, though. No guards, no cattle prods, no annoying inmates. “Sounds fine.” 

Joker seemed satisfied with that response. The two walked down the hall towards the exit. It took Croc about 6 blows to the  _ impenetrable _ doors before they just busted down, now scraps of dented metal. He smiled at that. 

“I hope you got somethin’ instead of standing around like a dumb bitch” the beast grumbled. Joker gave him an accusatory look and pretended to pout. 

“Ehhh come on, let’s get outta this hell hole.” Croc said ignoring Joker’s cute little pout. Damn. Not cute. Just a pout. Fuck. 

“Aight.” the clown agreed. The pair walked out of Arkham leaving behind bodies and wandering inmates. 

“Batman will be here soon. We should get to the city and go down into the sewers. I have a hideout down there that Batman doesn’t know about.” Croc whispered roughly. The clown nodded and picked up his pace to match Croc’s long stride. 

“Well, that sounds fun!” he chirped, switching to a slight skip. Croc rolled his eyes. 

“Yep,” the crocodile man said, though he didn’t share the enthusiasm. 

He had never shared the sewer with anyone. No one had seen his true home. He owned a small apartment in the narrows but the sewer was where he felt safe. Where he felt home. He almost debated taking Joker to his apartment. That way he wouldn’t have to be rejected by another that didn’t like who he was.

He was a meager man. He lived off of the  _ things _ he hunted. His prey. He took the money from their dead bodies. And that was why he still had an apartment. Why he was still a  _ member _ of society. Why he wasn’t hunted down by the police as some sort of trophy. 

Batman wouldn’t let that happen. Not when Waylon Jones was trying so hard to be a functioning person. A man. Not a beast. Not a monster. Just a man. Only a killer. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading  
> Stay tuned :)a


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